


Middle Ground

by Boeshane42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boeshane42/pseuds/Boeshane42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As always, Mycroft names his price and gets his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Middle Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Content advisory: incest, use of sex as a commodity

***

  
“You overestimate my position,” Mycroft says coolly, not lifting his eyes from the paperwork he’s methodically going through.

Not for the first time (in fact, not even for the first time _today_ ), Sherlock is struck by a strong urge to strangle his older brother. “We’re both very well aware that I’m doing no such thing,” Sherlock replies pointedly.

Mycroft, infuriating as he is, appears indifferent to Sherlock’s growing impatience. “Your insistence is childish as it is futile. I cannot simply place a tactical team at your disposal on a whim, certainly not after the police have kindly requested that you remain well clear of this matter.”

“The police are idiots!” Sherlock slams both hands on Mycroft’s desk, finally succeeding in making his brother put down the pen and look up. The hint of a smirk on Mycroft’s face is telling enough and Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Which you already know, of course.” This isn’t a discussion about the extent of Mycroft’s capabilities; it’s a negotiation. If Sherlock wasn’t so distracted by his current case he’d have picked up on it sooner, would have perhaps prepared a strategy. Unfortunately he’s too short on time to play this game today. “Out with it, then. What do you want?”

Mycroft remains silent, only leans back in his chair, runs an appraising gaze over Sherlock’s form before meeting his eyes again with a slight raise of his left eyebrow. It’s a good an answer as any.

Sherlock straightens up, jaw clenching in annoyance. “Fine,” he snaps. It’s a price he’d been willing to pay before, for less pressing matters. It will have to do. “Have the team ready in two hours. I’ll brief them myself.” At Mycroft’s expectant look he adds, more quietly, “Assuming everything goes well, I’ll come by tomorrow morning. 9 O’clock.”  

Mycroft nods. “Very well,” he agrees as he reaches for the office phone.

***

Sherlock is late, naturally. Not that Mycroft had expected him to be on time, but the scheduled meeting with the French ambassador may turn out to be an inconvenience.

His little brother is far from apologetic as he strolls into the office at a quarter to ten, but Mycroft doesn’t let his annoyance show. “I’ve heard last night’s operation was a tremendous success. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“I’ll hear enough of those from Lestrade. Possibly for weeks,” Sherlock replies with a smirk as he closes and locks the door behind him. He heads to the windows then, releases the ties on the curtains.

Mycroft switches on both lamps behind his desk as the natural light leaves the room; he does like to see what he’s doing. “Did the tactical team perform adequately?”

“Not a tactical team as much as a collection of dim-witted thugs, I must say. Fortunately their role in yesterday’s events consisted solely of being in the right place at the right time, which they somehow managed. Are you leaving that on?” Sherlock asks, tilting his chin to the camera at corner of the room.

“If you’ve no objection.”

Sherlock shrugs, indifferent. He’d never minded in the past, not after Mycroft had assured him that all their videos are kept in his personal safe, accessible to him alone.

Sherlock toes off his shoes and removes his jacket, but when his fingers begin working on his shirt buttons Mycroft stops him. “Let me,” Mycroft asks, rising from his chair. Sherlock relents, stays still and allows Mycroft to unbutton and remove the garment.

Mycroft folds the shirt neatly and sets it on a nearby armchair. Up close he can detect the fresh, pleasant scent of soap and shampoo wafting off Sherlock. “You’ve washed,” he comments mildly as he reaches for Sherlock’s belt.

“Rather thoroughly,” Sherlock replies and rolls his eyes. “God forbid you’d have to endure the touch of latex.”

Mycroft smiles. “How considerate. I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Sherlock knows just how much he dislikes using the supply of gloves and condoms kept in the bottom drawer of his desk, but the gesture is still a pleasant surprise. Mycroft has no delusions regarding Sherlock’s motives, knows that far from being a display of kindness, such acts are meant to fuel Mycroft’s infatuation and increase Sherlock’s leverage. Perhaps Sherlock is hoping to obtain more from these exchanges in the future. For the time being, Mycroft is content to let him believe that he might.

As Sherlock’s trousers and pants pool at his feet, Mycroft runs a hand down his flank, pauses to rest it on Sherlock’s hip. “A souvenir from last night, I presume…?” Mycroft asks, tracing a scrape on Sherlock’s ribcage with the fingers of his other hand. It’s slightly discoloured, the surrounding skin stained yellow and brown with iodine.

Sherlock shivers. “Jumped from a second floor balcony into a pile of rubbish,” he says dismissively. “John fixed it, I hardly feel it now.”

“Reckless as usual,” Mycroft chastises. “Anything else I should know about?” He touches the back of his fingers to the side of Sherlock’s jaw, makes Sherlock look at him. He needs a truthful answer; he’s accepted by now that Sherlock derives no physical pleasure from these encounters, but Mycroft will do nothing to cause him pain or discomfort.

“I’m fine, Mycroft, get on with it. I’m sure we both have a busy schedule.”

Satisfied, Mycroft sighs and steps back. “Very well. Over the desk, if you please.” He’d normally prefer the sofa, have Sherlock on his back, but as they’re short on time the desk will have to do. He’s cleared one side of it; no need to make a mess of his files and paperwork.

Sherlock is a sight, braced naked with his long fingers splayed atop the dark mahogany surface.  A tingle of anticipation runs through Mycroft as he settles back into his chair, now at eye-level with Sherlock’s hips. He runs a hand along the smooth curve of Sherlock’s backside, then down between his thighs. Sherlock dutifully spreads his legs further apart when Mycroft nudges at them. So willing to please for all the wrong reasons...

“Any preference?” Mycroft asks as he opens the drawer in which he keeps the lubricants.

Sherlock snorts, sends him an amused look over his shoulder. “Surprise me,” he replies dryly.

Mycroft takes a moment, finally decides to indulge in the almond oil. He pours a small amount, warms it between his fingers, enjoying the mild, earthy scent. He uses his thumb to apply the oil to Sherlock’s cleft, rubs it gently across the puckered opening. Once the muscle relaxes against the pad of his thumb he breaches Sherlock with his middle finger, sliding it deep into the gripping heat of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock lets out a shuddering exhale, clenching around Mycroft’s digit a few times.

“Alright?” Mycroft asks as he slowly begins to slide his finger in and out. “We haven’t done this in some time.”

“Eight months and twelve days,” Sherlock corrects, somewhat breathless. “And it’s fine.”

“Ah,” Mycroft reflects. “If memory serves I didn’t even have to ask last time.” He withdraws his finger, holds Sherlock still with one hand high on his thigh as he presses back inside with two.

“No, but you were being purposefully obtuse,” Sherlock replies between pants. “And it was the only thing I had to offer.”  

“Not the _only_ thing…” Mycroft reminds him. The original request had been merely that Sherlock socialize with a handful of philanthropists for a few hours. Sherlock had been far from enthusiastic and Mycroft had found it difficult to resist his brother's offered alternative.

“Attending that benefit was out of the question. It would have taken up my entire evening whereas this--“ Sherlock gasps as Mycroft’s fingers twist inside him, swallows, “—this was over and done with in less than an hour.”

Mycroft’s reply is interrupted as the phone on his desk beeps. Sherlock tenses, twists his head sharply to look at it, but Mycroft shushes him, rests a calming hand on his hip and continues fucking him slowly with his fingers. When Sherlock settles, Mycroft hits the answering button with his free hand.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Holmes, the Ambassador has arrived.”

Mycroft sighs in irritation. “Thank you, Mary, please show him to the meeting room and inform him I’ll be another ten minutes,” he answers in the most benign tone he can muster.

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock snickers as Mycroft terminates the call. “Ten minutes? No time to bask in the afterglow?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the sarcasm. “The consequence of your tardiness,” he points out. He watches his fingers sink into Sherlock’s body, the pink ring of muscle, shiny with oil, finally relaxed as he pumps them in and out slowly. Sherlock’s soft cock brushes against the fingers of his other hand, the organ only slightly engorged due to the prostate stimulation. It’s as close to aroused Sherlock is likely to become, Mycroft knows.

He stands up finally, pulls his fingers out and makes short work of his belt. Once unfastened, he lowers his trousers and pants to mid-thigh. He reaches for the oil again, drizzles some onto his hand and takes hold of his erection. The slick slide into his own fist feels heavenly after the prolonged buildup and he allows himself a few more indulgent strokes before lining up behind Sherlock.

There’s some resistance as he presses forward, Sherlock’s sphincter not quite accustomed to this type of stretch. He keeps a steady pressure, inching forward gradually until the thickest part of his cock breaches the entrance and he sinks in fully. He has to bite his lower lip to keep some truly embarrassing sounds from escaping; it’s been long enough that his body has forgotten the exquisite pleasure of this initial act. “My, you feel lovely,” he murmurs once he can find his voice again.

Sherlock grunts and drops to rest on his elbows, lets his head hang low, dark curls brushing the surface of the desk. Mycroft gives him a few seconds to adjust, remaining still as he slides both hands over the curve of Sherlock’s buttocks. He uses his thumbs to spread Sherlock’s cheeks wider, looks down at the place where they’re connected, Sherlock’s flesh stretched around the base of his cock. He rocks his hips gently at first, a slow glide against Sherlock’s internal walls with hardly any friction.

Sherlock pushes back after another moment to signal he’s ready for more.  Mycroft withdraws halfway before thrusting in deep, establishes a steady rhythm of strokes he knows will bring him to completion very soon. Sherlock’s face is hidden from view, but Mycroft can hear his breath stuttering every time he’s filled.

As he feels his climax building Mycroft looks up, stares into the blinking red light of the security camera. He will be the only one seeing this footage later, but in his mind he’s making direct eye-contact with an outside viewer, can almost put himself in the outsider’s place and see the picture they’re making; him, still mostly dressed, cock buried in his brother who’s bent over his desk.

He knows the expression he must be wearing - intense pleasure mixed with a generous amount of self-satisfaction. Oh, yes, plenty of that, Mycroft thinks as his eyes slide back down to his brother’s straining body, because nothing in the knowledge that this arrangement is somewhat mutually beneficial takes away from the fact that in the end, Mycroft always gets his way.

The thought reverberates, lingers in his mind as his rhythm begins to falter. He gasps, his hips snapping forward sharply several times as a tide of ecstasy and heat washes through him. Sherlock clenches encouragingly around his pulsing cock and the added stimulation is nearly blinding in its intensity. Mycroft’s harsh, gasping breaths remain loud in the room long after his cock has stopped releasing deep inside Sherlock. It takes a moment before his legs feel steady enough for him to relax the tight grip on Sherlock’s hips, pull out and away and collapse back into his chair.

“You really should try and exercise more, you sound like you’ve run a marathon,” his brother supplies in an amused tone.

Mycroft huffs, too lethargic to take offence or feign annoyance. He extends a hand toward Sherlock’s backside, dips his fingers into his cleft. Sherlock’s hole feels swollen and loose, slippery with oil and come. “I’m sure my fitness level would improve drastically if we do this on a weekly basis,” he offers. He pushes two fingers into Sherlock’s slick passage, pumps them in and out lazily.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Sherlock predictably replies. “Are you quite done?”

Regretfully, Mycroft pulls his fingers out, wipes them on a tissue he plucks from the box on his desk. “I have a meeting to attend. You’ll show yourself out?“ he asks as he begins rearranging his clothes.

Sherlock gingerly pushes up from the table, cleans himself up and then saunters toward the far wall. “Eventually,” he murmurs, eyes already scanning the bookshelves.

Mycroft buttons his jacket, walks around the table and collects the folders for his meeting. “Do try to keep the snooping to a minimum,” he says mildly. It’s useless, naturally. They both know Sherlock will do as he pleases once left alone in this office.

Sherlock hums distractedly, already tuning him out.

Mycroft shakes his head, sends a last fond look at his brother’s back before hurrying out; the French ambassador has been waiting long enough.    

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mycroft's Post Secret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244646) by [ParanoidPedant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParanoidPedant/pseuds/ParanoidPedant)




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